#pleak

ilya will not stop teasing shane about coming handsfree while sucking ilya’s dick. shane’s spent the last week with bated breath as ilya has taken to reminding shane of this fact at the absolute worst times. on thursday in the locker room right before going out to practice where shane was leading warmups, ilya had leaned over in the tight space of shane’s stall and whispered, “how are you going to teach these guys about endurance and restraint when you clearly have so little?” shane had pinched his husbands side (possibly) a bit too hard.

just this morning, in the seats of coach wiebe’s office as wiebe talked animatedly on the phone on the other side of the room, ilya had leaned over close to shane’s ear and asked, “what do you think wiebe would say if he knew his assistant captain had come just from sucking his captain’s big cock?” the syllables dripping from his mouth.

and frankly shane was sick of it. at first he knew ilya was just an asshole and that by the way ilya had fucked him after, he clearly thought that shane’s lack of restraint was hot as fuck. but after it had been enough time for the familiar ache to dissipate and the bruises left on his thighs and waist to fade, shane was rapidly losing the ability to retain any semblance of calm or control towards his husband. wiebe’s office this morning had been the last straw. after racing home, shane going nearly 8 miles over the speed limit (i know!), he finally got ilya right where he wanted him, slammed up against the wall of their entryway.

“okay, i know you think this is funny, but you can’t say shit like that in front of people, especially not coach!”, shane’s voice raising in pitch with every word.

ilya just smirks, he knows his husband and he knows that while, yes, he may (allegedly) have gone a bit too far with wiebe, that shane loved it when he pushed that line. and ilya’s dick loves it when shane finally pushes back.

“i think you like it”, ilya purrs, leaning his head forward just slightly, shifting his hips from where they’re pinned beneath shane’s solid form to gently press his growing erection into shane’s muscled thigh, where he knows shane’s (probably) hard dick will be.

shane gasps as the knowledge that ilya knows him far too well settles in his mind as every other thought is quickly pushed out and replaced with ilya, hard, hot, ilya, ilya-

“ilya”, shane whispers, his grasp on reality becoming desperate, his anger falling away.

ilya leans closer, shane’s easy submission sending blood rushing to his dick, “fuck shane, you are going to come for me now, yes?”, ilya says, half teasing, half unbelievably turned on (okay maybe a bit more than half).

and then, as fast as it had disappeared, all the spite and annoyance comes rushing back. shane slams ilya further into the wall, and in a practiced, low voice says, “встаньте на колени”

get on your knees.

ilya swears he has just been murdered. his ears ring, is his nose bleeding? his tongue swells up and his mouth begins to drool with anticipation, obedience. he lingers for just a moment before dropping to his knees.

“fuck”, shane can’t help but moan as his husband enthusiastically begins mouthing at the hard outline of shane’s dick—wet, hot, ilya.

shane takes a deep breath in, commanding his eyes to ilya’s lust drunken gaze, “well, are you going to suck my dick or just slobber all over my nice jeans щенок?”

the moan that falls out of ilya’s throat is almost inhuman, full of wanting, lust, aching. ilya desperately pulls at the zipper of shane’s jeans, only undoing the button after managing to get the zipper halfway down. “who’s eager now?”, shane smirks. ilya just continues yanking shane’s jeans down, his hand takes shane’s dick out of his boxers and he immediately takes him down to the hilt. and for a moment, shane is lost in the warm wet embrace of his husbands mouth. but ilya doesn’t move his head. he remains, nose pressed to shane’s pubes, hot breath slowing as ilya closes his eyes. “ilya, fuck- you gotta move, plea-“, shane stops himself just in time.

“that’s not sucking my dick rozanov”

CONTAINS : [fem!reader x dilf!james x son!sam]

DISCLAIMER: I do not condone cheating, this is fictional and all characters are 18+ [ NO INCEST ] TW: cheating, smut, 18+

read pt.1 read pt.2

It was late, and the house had gone quiet—just the low hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling. You should’ve gone to bed an hour ago, but the light under James’s door was still on.

You didn’t knock.

The door creaked open slowly, and there he was—shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed as he looked down at the book in his hands. He looked up when he heard you, eyes dark under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

“You lost?” he asked, voice rough and tired.

“Not exactly,” you said, stepping inside. You shut the door behind you with a soft click.

James watched you carefully, eyes trailing the oversized t-shirt you wore— it was Sams shirt though it used to be his shirt, it hung just long enough to leave everything to the imagination. You saw his jaw tighten, just a little.

“You always read this late?” you asked, voice soft as you sat on the edge of his bed.

James glanced up from the worn paperback in his hands, a little slower than usual. His brows lifted like he was surprised you noticed. “Can’t sleep sometimes.”

You nodded, drawing one leg up on the bed, turning slightly to face him. “What is it?”

He held up the cover for you to see—some beat-up noir novel with a creased spine and dog-eared corners. “Nothing fancy.”

You leaned closer to look, resting your hand beside his on the blanket, and that was the moment it all started to unravel for him.

Because suddenly, your knee brushed his thigh. And you were in that damn shirt, bare legs curled up like you didn’t know what it did to him. You smelled like lavender and skin-warm comfort, and your hair was still a little messy from where you’d been tossing in your own bed—until you wandered into his room like it was no big deal.

He looked back at the book.

Tried to.

You tilted your head, still unaware—or maybe just pretending to be. “You like it?”

“I—” James cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s… I mean, it’s decent.”

You smiled. “You sound real convincing.”

He was still trying to keep his eyes on the page. Still failing.

Because now your fingers were absentmindedly brushing his blanket. Close. Too close.

And then you said, “What’s it about?”

That was it. That was the last straw.

James dropped the book to his lap, hand still gripping it like it might keep him grounded. His eyes met yours, hungry and desperate and so done pretending.

“You wanna know what it’s about?” he said, voice low, rough.

Your breath caught. “Yeah?”

He leaned in—just a little, just enough. “It’s about a guy who’s been trying real hard to keep his hands off the girl who keeps showing up in his space like she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

You blinked, lips parting. “James—”

“I can’t do this tonight,” he said, voice tighter now. “Can’t pretend I’m not thinking about you sitting in my bed with that damn shirt and bare legs and those eyes that keep looking at me like I’m not gonna do something about it.”

You swallowed, pulse racing. “Then don’t pretend.”

That was all it took. The book hit the floor with a soft thud.

And James was on you before you could breathe.

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the shirt higher as he kissed you—deep, hot, possessive, like he was claiming every second he’d been too afraid to take.

No more questions. No more pages.

Just James, undone.

And you, finally the reason why.

His mouth found yours, tongue sliding against yours, rough stubble brushing your skin, his hands moving like he’d been planning this in his head for weeks. Maybe he had. Maybe every time you sat too close or wore one of his shirts or said his name like that, it chipped away at the wall he’d built.

And now? Now there was nothing left but need.

James groaned low in his throat as he pushed you back against the pillows, settling between your thighs like he belonged there. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Do you know,” he muttered against your neck, dragging his lips along your pulse, “how hard it’s been to keep my hands off you?”

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Then stop trying.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising fast. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Right now.”

“I want you,” you whispered, breathless. “I’ve always wanted you.”

And that was all he needed.

He kissed you again, deeper, while his hands pushed that sleep shirt up inch by inch. His touch was firm but reverent, like he needed to feel every inch of skin he’d been denied. He pulled the shirt off over your head and just looked at you for a second, lips parted, eyes drinking you in.

“Fuck,” he said, almost like a prayer.

Then he leaned down, kissing down your chest—slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses that burned like heat and promise. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other, making you arch up into him, his hands pinning your hips down like he didn’t want to rush.

But he was hard. So hard against you, still in those gray sweatpants, and the friction was driving you both insane.

“Take these off,” you gasped, tugging at the waistband.

“Desperate already?” he teased, voice wrecked. But he stood anyway, tugging them down and off. And when he climbed back over you, bare now, skin flushed and wanting—you reached for him instantly, pulling him back into the heat of your body.

He slid a hand between your thighs, fingers finding you slick and aching.

“Shit,” he groaned, rubbing slow circles. “You’re already so wet for me.”

You nodded, lips parted. “James, please—”

He lined himself up, teasing your entrance, dragging the tip along your folds just to feel how ready you were.

Then, with one slow, controlled thrust, he sank into you.

You both moaned—deep and low, the kind of sound that fills a room and settles in your bones. He was thick, stretching you perfectly, and he didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, letting the moment settle in his chest like it mattered.

Because it did.

“Been thinking about this since the day I met you,” he said, voice broken.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how bad you want me.”

And he did.

He rocked into you with slow, deliberate thrusts at first—deep, powerful, hitting every spot just right. But it didn’t take long before the tension in his jaw gave way, and he started fucking you like he couldn’t get deep enough, like he needed to live inside you to breathe right.

Your hands clutched his back, nails digging in, head thrown back as your moans filled the room. And James? He couldn’t stop saying your name—over and over, like it grounded him, like it was the only thing that made sense.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, voice rough in your ear. “You’re mine. You feel that?”

You nodded, nearly crying out as your body tightened around him. “James, I’m—”

“I know. Let go for me. Come on, baby.”

You fell apart beneath him, trembling, clenching around him as waves of heat washed over you—and the second you did, he let himself go too, thrusting hard one last time before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a loud, wrecked groan.

The room fell quiet after.

Just panting. Heartbeats. The weight of everything you hadn’t said, now lingering in sweat-slick skin and tangled limbs.

James didn’t move right away. He stayed there, inside you, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck like he was scared this would disappear.

And you just held him. Because you didn’t want it to end either.

oh naur, is sam gonna find out? or is he just as guilty… 🙈 pt four soon!!

TAGLIST: @haydensheartt @anakinstwinklebunny @fredswrite @speaknow-sw @divineani @bxbyysstuff @loverforoldermen @weixuldo @garretthedlundisbae @ludarg15 @sflame15-blog @alealuvshayden @ihearthayden @starrdream @cherriies-snake @elorareads

I tagged everyone that asked to be tagged in part 3.

so they start a selection and wednesday has her eyes set on a guy in the far end of the line who has shown little to no skill and a lot of disgust when it comes to the blood of his comrades. she doesn't even let it get to the one-on-one battle, she wants him and no one can tell her otherwise.

her only friend, lady barclay, who stayed in the palace out of concern boredom tries to change her mind, to at least not go for the dimmest of them all, but it's useless. when princess wednesday is set on something nothing can stray her from the chosen path.

honestly, wednesday just wants the most incompetent out of them, just the easiest one to fool so she can do things by herself.

edwin, better yet Enid, ran away from home so she wouldn't have to marry and could finally have peace away from her mother. disguising as a male and infiltrating the corps was easy so now she needed a place to be, and her mind had set on guarding the far end of the castle so she'd be mostly alone and able to watch as people moved. Gossip!!!

now she's stuck with a stubborn princess who won't give up in trying to surpass her supervision and she'll be damned if she loses this job. So they compromise.

she acknowledges wednesday is not a damsel in distress but makes sure to be always six feet behind her no matter how many times she whimpers at the murder sites and gross findings.

one time they go investigating in the forest and enid gets hurt by protecting wednesday And their evidence and it's then that wednesday finds edwin is not really a man.

the princess insists on treating her knight's injuries and enid jokes she'll make her think she's special. wednesday rolls her eyes but demands her to take off the armor and enid freezes, she's sort of dizzy and a little out of it but she still knows she can get real consequences for pretending to be someone she's not.

wednesday, for once, is gentle when she finds out. not in her words, that would surely need a whole lot of more practice, but her touch is almost featherlight as she treats the cuts and by the end of it she is more willing to allow enid into the proper investigation.